


Going Places

by hutchynstarsk



Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: AU, Gen, fashion industry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-02 00:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hutch is a fashion model.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Places

approx. 5000 words.  An AU 'meeting' fic.  Rated PG-13.

  


  


  


  


**Going Places**

  


  
Ken Hutchinson peered around the corner nervously. No one in sight. He slipped out onto the loading dock and lit a cigarette, drew deeply of the smoke, and let out a sigh. He still wore the designer slacks and open-to-the-waist white shirt, his blond hair carefully disarrayed. He felt entirely frazzled.   


A dark-haired man walked around from behind a textiles truck and set down a box on the loading terminal. Ken jumped.

“Whatsamatter, bein’ pretty wear you out?” said the dark, curly-haired man. His eyes held ironic humor.

Hutch relaxed slightly, realizing he hadn’t been caught by his employers. They’d probably have his head if they caught him smoking in these clothes. “Just didn’t realize what I was signing up for,” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders and long fingers. He took another drag of the cigarette.

The dark-haired man gave a snort. “I coulda told you that. Bein’ paraded around like cattle. Welcome to big city fashion.” He turned and went back for another box. Hutch followed him with his eyes, not having anything better to do, and amused himself by trying to place the man’s accent. He had close-cropped, curly hair, and a long nose. He looked about Hutch’s age—twenty-three—but Hutch admitted to himself it was hard to tell. And the stranger moved with an energy and purpose Hutch found himself envying. It would be nice to feel that confident.

The (New Yorker??) set down another box firmly. “Take my advice, Blondie. Head back to whatever farm you came off of. Trust me, you’re not cut out for these people.” He jutted a thumb back towards the building, distaste and even scorn evident on his face.

Hutch found himself objecting to that. “Now wait a minute. They’re your employers. If you hate them so much, why are you working here? You could show a little loyalty.”

He snorted. “Yeah, right. Why do I work here? Well, a man’s gotta eat. As for showin’ loyalty—okay, spunky boy, why should I?” He crossed his arms and leaned against the dock. “They’d replace me quick enough, if they could find someone to work cheaper—maybe an illegal immigrant. Yeah. Those aren’t stories you hear. That’s real. Oh, and want to bet how loyal they’d be to you, something happened to you? Say you took a nose dive off this dock and broke your pretty face?”

As if to demonstrate, he gave a shove to the platform Hutch stood on. It didn’t move, but Hutch found himself stepping back anyway, his face reddening. It had a disconcerting tendency to do that still, even though he thought he’d grown so urbane since leaving the farm. (And how had this worker known he’d come off a farm?)

“Watch it, Curly,” he growled.

The dark-haired man’s eyebrows rose. “Ooh, big scary male model gonna come down here and whoop my ass?”

Hutch found himself reddening further. “N-not in these clothes. But if you want to—to fight, that’s fine. I’ll meet you after work.” He tried to keep all trepidation and reluctance from his voice.

To his surprise, the other man laughed. “Don’t worry, Blondie. I’m not gonna mess up your good looks. Something tells me you need that meal ticket as long as you can ride it.” He turned his back on Hutch.

“Now wait a minute! I’m not just some airhead!” Hutch found himself jumping down from the dock and following. “I graduated from a good college—top of my class, too. I came out here to get involved in acting. Apparently—” He swallowed. “—it’s a little harder than I thought. I’m doing this to—to tide myself over in the meantime, and pay back some of my loans. It’s good work, if you can get it.”

The dock worker cast him an amused look. He lifted a box and began to carry it back to the loading dock. Hutch found himself picking up another one and following, ready to continue the argument.

“I get it,” said the dark-haired man. “You’re sayin’ I ain’t a pretty boy like you. You’re saying I’d be lucky to have your job.” His lip curled. He put down his box and went back for another. Hutch followed suit, hurrying to catch up.

“I—that’s—not what I’m—not what I’m saying at all!”

Had it been? Hutch’s parents were well-off. He continued tried to guard himself against any appearance of snobbishness. Had some slipped out, anyway? Not that it mattered how rich his parents were now, since they weren’t speaking to him. Turned out they didn’t want their son working in show biz.

Curly lifted another box and frowned at him over it. “Well, I got news for ya, Blondie. I wouldn’t take your job if they paid me all the gold in the Mint! Oh, yeah, I know about the National Mint—even if I’m not a ‘college graduate’ like you.” He said the words like they were pond scum, and brushed past Hutch.

He whirled when Hutch started to follow him. “What, you’re tryin’ to take my job, now, too? Get outta my face, ya—ya—high priced prostitute!”

Hutch gaped at him, trying to draw air, and unable to get any words out, any words at all.

“Starsky!” yelled a familiar, haranguing voice.  Both young men faced the dock. Ms. Flaubert stood there, skinny and wrinkled, with the skin on her face pulled tight. She jutted one sharp, long fingernail down at Curly. “You’re on report, young man! Mr. Davis and I will have you fired if you pull one more…one…more…incident!”

Curly looked up at her with stubborn defiance in his gaze. His eyelids tilted half shut, one more so than the other, and for a moment he looked like the most stubborn person in the world.

She transferred her attention quickly to Hutch. “Ken, what are you doing down there? You’ll get your outfit filthy!  Come up here, at once.” Her voice was nagging, but it also contained a caressing note, as if he were a small child.

Hutch cast a last, revolted look at Curly—Starsky, that is—and headed back up to join her. Prostitute? What the hell? If he couldn’t even come up with insults that made sense…

#

“Have a drink with me, Ken.”

It was the end of a long day. He’d only modeled three outfits, but it had taken almost twelve hours to get the ‘right’ photographs. Now he finally stood in his own clothes—corduroy pants and a red flannel shirt—and all he wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. The lights the photographers used made him sweat something fierce, and he felt grubby and disgusting.

Now Ms. Flaubert was giving him a long, slow smile, and holding out a glass. Her head was tilted sideways slightly. Hutch briefly wondered how she could manage to look so fresh after a long day of shooting. It couldn’t be a side effect of plastic surgery, could it? If so, maybe he should consider it.

He looked at the vodka she held out. It did sound good. “Thanks.” He reached for it, and realized he should probably try to sound a little more grateful. Here she had given him a perfectly well-paying job, which was hard to find in this city, and he just felt like moaning about the long hours. What would his grandfather think of him? Grandpa Dave had worked all his life as a dairy farmer—toiling long hours to take care of his herd. He wouldn’t have thought much of a whiner who couldn’t take a few hours of bright lights. Maybe the headache would go away with a drink.

He raised it to her, and took a sip. “Thanks. It’s very good.”

She arranged herself on a couch, sort of stretched out, and patted the seat beside her. Her smile seemed especially large, and rather toothy. “Come sit beside me, Ken. Or should I call you Kenny?”

Hutch sat down with a shrug. “Ken is fine. Although my friends usually call me ‘Hutch.’”

“’Hutch.’” She winkled her nose. “That sounds like a rabbit cage.” She gave a little laugh. “Completely unsuited for you.”

He found himself turning red again. His name—like a rabbit cage.

She reached out and gripped his arm, then ran her fingers down his bicep. “Don’t be upset, Kenny. You’re simply such a pretty boy I expected you to have a prettier nickname.”

“Pretty?” Hutch drew back, raising his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth turning down. Something about this made him very uncomfortable. “Look, I know you hired me for my looks, but I’m supposed to look—manly, or something. Not ‘pretty.’”

“That’s what I meant,” she murmured, leaning closer. “Your beautiful hair. Your tall, firm body…”

Hutch found himself leaning back to get away from her. Her breath smelled as if she’d already had a few.

He looked up quickly at the sound of the studio door opening. Mr. Davis sashayed in. Ms. Flaubert sat up quickly and glared at him, straightening her shirt. Mr. Davis glanced at the two on the couch—Hutch sitting there, feeling clueless, still holding the skinny stem of his drink. Mr. Davis rolled his eyes, grabbed a large sketch pad from where it had been leaning against a mirror, and headed back out the door. He flapped a hand. “Don’t mind me, darlings. I wouldn’t want to disturb…anything.”

“Now. Where were we?” Ms. Flaubert turned her predatory grin on him again, and suddenly Hutch felt sick.

_ This is what he was talking about. Prostitution. Is this why she hired me? _

He felt sick with dread, and so degraded. Here he’d thought he was actually good at this job—much as he hated it. And now he found out…

“Excuse me. I—I have to go home,” stammered Hutch, tearing himself from the couch. He set his drink down blindly on the first flat surface—and blinked down at it, as it spilled. All over a white, fur rug.

“But…Kenny, dear.” She tottered after him on spiky heels, surprisingly fast, and gripped his arm. “Don’t worry about that,” she purred. “Come back and sit down. We were having such a nice…little… _ talk _ .” Her fingernails scraped his arm, and he knew it was supposed to be seductive. All it made him want to do was shudder.

She was breathing on him again. “You know you can go really far—quite amazingly far—in this business— _ if _  you know the right people.”

“I h-have to go.” Hutch yanked his arm free and made blindly for the front door. He yanked on it, and then shoved. It didn’t open either way.

She was with him again, caught his arm again. Damn it! “Darling, that one’s locked,” she said in a playful, seductive, predatory voice that made him feel shaky and sick. Why had he been so blind? Of course no one wanted him for his talent—just his body. His damn looks.

“This one’s open,” said a familiar, very welcome voice—one with a strong New York accent.

They both whirled to see Starsky, standing in the service exit, holding the door wide open. He looked wonderfully familiar and confident just then. Not the sort of person who would put up with being seduced by a boss.

“ _ You _ ,” hissed Ms. Flaubert, leaving no doubt as to her opinion of Starsky.

Hutch ripped his arm free, and loped towards the door. “Thanks for the drink,” he called on his way out, not even daring to turn and look at her. Then he stood outside, in the cold night air, breathing deep, feeling like he could finally fill his lungs. A few stars hung over the sky, a very few, compared to what he’d have been able to see on the farm.

“And thank you for that.” He turned to Starsky.

Starsky gave a nod. He had his hands stuffed in his pockets, and wore a heavy leather jacket against the cold. “No problem. I guess I was wrong about you.” He gave Hutch a full look, meeting his gaze.  “Sorry about that.”

“No problem.” Hutch shrugged it off, and reached for his packet of cigarettes. Boy, did he need a smoke.

Starsky clapped Hutch on the back. “I’d ask you out for a drink, but I have the feeling right now you’d freak out an’ think I meant somethin’ by it, the way she did. So I’ll see you tomorrow—if either one of us still has a job. See ya, Blondie.”  He took the stairs two at a time.

Hutch watched him go, puffing on his cigarette. Then he hurried after him. “Wait.”

#  


They were neither one of them fired, although the next time Hutch saw Ms. Flaubert in the vicinity of Starsky, she gave Starsky a look that could’ve curdled milk. He was surprised Starsky’s hair didn’t fall off and his jacket melt. Instead, Starsky just kept blithely working, stacking boxes in the stock room. Ignoring, her, maybe not even noticing. Hutch wished he could be that confident.

As for himself, he didn’t get in trouble either—although Ms. Flaubert was a bit sour with him, and made a few snarky remarks about people who spilled things, and the stain on the rug.

But she didn’t offer him any more drinks.

Starsky did, though. The two of them both ended up working late most days, and when they got off at approximately the same time, the one who got off first usually waited around for the other—pretending he’d just happened to be there—and then they went off to get a bite to eat or something to drink.

Now that the official head-butting was over, Hutch found Starsky quite pleasant company. The dark-haired man had a wicked, entirely apt sense of humor, and he could crack Hutch up just by the well-timed raise of an eyebrow. He also seemed surprisingly smart—except for the time he stopped to buy a pet rock from a street vendor.

“Starsk, you don’t need that,” said Hutch, trying to take it from him gently and put it back on the display.

“Gimmee! It’s mine!” Starsky pulled free, surprisingly vehement.

Hutch raised his hands. “Okay, okay.”

Starsky’s gaze softened immediately. “I’ll let you borrow it, though, if you want. I think I’ll name her ‘Louise.’” He pronounced the name fondly.

Hutch had tried hard not to let himself crack up. But of course, it hadn’t worked. He’d ended up standing in the street, laughing so hard he was almost bent double, slapping his knee like an idiot—with Starsky staring at him with an offended, wounded expression.

Starsky covered the rock with his hands. “Don’t listen to him, Louise.” He turned and headed down the street, leaving Hutch to catch up.

Which he did. Hutch fell into step with him, reached up and ruffled Starsky’s curls.   
  
#  


“Not there. Stack it over there, Dave.”

Hutch, walking past the stock room’s doorway, stopped at the sound of his friend’s first name coming from Mr. Davis’s mouth.

From Starsky, a huge sigh. “Well, why didncha say so before? Now I gotta move all these—all over again!” Starsky’s accent sounded thicker, which meant he was upset—or in this case, exasperated.

Hutch peered in through the doorway. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. It was dimmer in the stockroom than the studio.  But when he could see clearly, what he saw made his mouth go dry.

Mr. Davis was ogling his friend! Starsky, pared down to his tight jeans and a white t-shirt, with even the sleeves of this rolled up against the heat of such hard work, was bending and stacking, bending and lifting and stacking—and Mr. Davis’s eyes were latched on him with a look of pure lust. For a second, Hutch felt sick again. So this was why Ms. Flaubert hadn’t been able to fire him! He was Mr. Davis’s target, the same as Hutch had been hers.

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat loudly, was only slightly mollified to see Mr. David jump a foot into the air.

“Ken.” He spoke sourly. “I didn’t see you there. Don’t you have…work to do?”

“Yeah. Ms. Flaubert needs Starsky to move some displays,” lied Hutch. He could feel his neck heating up—had he really just lied to a boss? But he didn’t take it back. “Come on, Starsky.”

“Sure. What’s the hurry?” Starsky grabbed his jacket and flung it over his shoulders.

_ That’s _ _  why it’s so warm in the stock room _ , thought Hutch.

The second they were out of Mr. Davis’s sight, he grabbed his friend’s arm and pulled him into a corner. “He’s giving you the eye, Starsk.”

“Who? Huh?” Starsky gave him a look of utter incomprehension.

“Mr. Davis. He’s giving you the eye—looking you over like a piece of meat. He was watching you work, um, just—just—way too intensely.”

Starsky looked at him with a laugh in his eyes. “Aw, you worry too much, Hutch! Now you’re seeing evil bosses everywhere. ‘Sides, even Ms. Flaubert’s behavin’ herself now. Quit your worrying.” He gave Hutch a slap on the back. “Anyway, I’m straight. Even if he’s not, he’s just a harmless old geezer. Don’t worry about me. I know you’re wrong, anyway.”

Hutch had to clear his dry throat to speak. “Why’s that?”

“’Cuz he and Ms. Flaubert are too tight!”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Just be careful, Starsk. Okay?”

“Sure, Hutch. If it makes you feel better, I’ll watch my back.”

#

The Christmas party. Hutch had managed to make it through all of Autumn, and he was still a model—pulling down good money, even if his bosses didn’t seem entirely pleased with him lately. He was at least getting used to the work, and better at it.

There might be better things to do than modeling, but for now, it kept him in steaks and salads—and it let him work near his buddy, Starsky.

Now Starsky and Hutch stood in the decked out studio amidst milling, bored-looking models. The two smiled at each other, holding their untasted glasses of mulled wine at the ready, to tap together at the stroke of midnight.

“Christmas,” said Starsky—almost the way a little kid would have. “What are you gonna get me, Hutch?” He raised his eyebrows. He wore a tight red t-shirt with his blue jeans—and a little, green, snap-on bowtie that did not go with it at all.

“Not a thing. Except maybe some fashion advice.” He pointed to the bowtie.

“Please. Like you’re any great fashion expert yourself, Mr. Flannel Shirt!”

“What, I’m wearing green pants!” He plucked self-consciously at his red flannel shirt and smoothed his military green pants. Perhaps he should’ve dressed up some more. All the other models were giving him scornful glances. A few had even tittered behind their hands. But at least Ms. Flaubert wasn’t eying him.

“Ooh—here we go!” Starsky grabbed Hutch’s arm and loudly began to count down. “Ten—nine—eight—”

Hutch glanced around the room. Everyone else had fallen silent, giving Starsky scornful stares. “Seven—six—five!” Hutch happily raised his voice to join Starsky’s—two ‘squares’ in a room full of cool people. But at least they were square together.

“Four—three—two—one! Merry Christmas!” Starsky whooped and sloshed his glass against Hutch’s. “And many more!”

“That’s birthdays, bozo.” But Hutch gave him a grin before tasting his mulled cider. Hm. That was strong stuff.

#

Hutch awoke with a blinding headache. Or, well, something was blinding him. It might be that bright light, actually.

What was he doing lying directly under the photography lights—with no clothes on?

He groaned as he tried to sit up.

The last thing he remembered clearly was drinking a toast with Starsky. After that, things had gotten rather fuzzy and gray. He seemed to remember the room whirling around. After that, nothing.

“Hello, Sleeping Beauty.” Ms. Flaubert’s voice was extra gravelly—and extra ugly, with a vengeful, gloating sound in it. “It’s about time you woke up. I was beginning to wonder if I should splash you with some water. But I thought that might take you out of the mood, so I resisted.” She stood up, so he could see her now. She wore a white dressing gown.

Oh—hell.

“You drugged me?” Hutch’s mouth tasted like fur. He licked his lips, tried to take stock of his situation—see if he could gain some measure of control over it. His limbs still felt heavy and drugged, but he was fairly sure he couldn’t be overpowered by one little old lady, no matter how vitriolic. Unless she’d already—?

She must’ve seen the fear in his eyes. “Darling, don’t be ridiculous. It’s simply no fun if you’re not conscious. Besides, I have better ways of gaining your…shall we say…cooperation.” She waved a hand, and fanned herself with several photos. “I had them worked up extra quickly in the dark room. Perhaps you’d like to take a look?”

He sat up mutely, and made a grab. She let him catch just one of the photos, and pulled the others teasingly away. “Now, now! Save your energy, Kenny. You’re going to need it!”

With a sinking heart, he squinted at a picture of himself, spread-eagled on the white rug, posed as if to be alluring, his eyes shut, one hand flung up over his head.

He raised his eyes to hers. “This is blackmail.”

“Don’t be so gauche, darling. It’s…shall we say…a transaction. You sleep with me, like you should’ve done months ago, and these little pieces of art won’t follow you for the rest of your life. Because they will, you see. Whatever profession you enter, or don’t. Pictures like these stay around—they last, and last, and last. Especially if, like me, you know just where to send them. And when you’re old and gray, there will still be these pictures of you, following you no matter how far you go. Perhaps by that time you won’t mind.”

Hutch jerked to his knees and made a clumsy grab for them—succeeded in getting two more. He ripped them vengefully to pieces.

“Foolish boy. I have copies. And negatives. Naughty, naughty.” She wagged fanned herself with the remaining photos.

Hutch felt hot bile rising in his throat—and a suspicious, damp heat starting in his eyes. “I don’t care,” he said thickly. “I’ll go to the cops before I let you blackmail me.”

Her gaze, mocking, hardened to pure, cold stainless steel. “I thought you might take that view. So you might like to know where you friend is.”

Starsky!  Somehow, he’d forgotten. Whatever was in the wine—Starsky must’ve had it, too.

“W-where—” He started to get up, looking around frantically for some shred of decency, some piece of clothing to cover up with. Had to save Starsky.

“Now, now. Such impatience! You may have noticed Mr. Davis has a decided preference for… dark, curly-haired men. He has Starsky in quite a safe place—a place no policemen will find him until it’s far too late. Unless, of course, I tell them where to look.” She looked at him. Waiting, like a spider.

“You mean…” Hutch felt sick. He sat back down and pulled his knees up towards his chest. “Y-you’ll tell them where to find Starsky…if…I…” Suspicion hardened his gaze. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

She shrugged. “Then don’t, darling. It’s all one to me, whatever he does to your proletariat friend.”

Tears pooled in Hutch’s eyes. He rested his forehead against his knees for a moment. If only his head didn’t hurt so much. She could talk rings around him, in this state. He thought of Starsky. He swallowed. “How do—how do I know it’s not already too late?”

“Why, darling, you simply don’t! But I can tell you, from past experience, that Davis likes to take his time in…these ventures. Dear Mr. Davis. He’s such a...determined man. He always gets what he wants, one way or another. As do I.” Her green eyes bored into him for a moment, like eyes from a skull. A shudder ran through him, and he dropped her gaze.

“All right. I’ll do it,” he croaked. However bad it was, however dirty he felt afterwards, at least he could save Starsky. If she wasn’t lying. He felt futile tears starting again—what the hell had they drugged him with, anyway?—and fought them back. No. None of that. Not with her watching.

“Why, darling, I thought you’d never ask.” She rose, and swept off a white, furry robe—revealing a tiny nightgown underneath. Hutch gulped. She actually was pretty well preserved. And he’d never felt as dirty for noticing something like that. That…surprisingly firm body…hid a heart as cold as a snake’s.

“Well, darling, shall we head to the couch? I think you’ll be more comfortable there—and you may have a drink of water before we begin, of course. Your head must be  _ killing _  you.”

_ She’s done this a lot _ , thought Hutch. _ When someone won’t give in… _

His mind flitted back to Sunday school lessons, and Joseph running away from someone’s lustful wife. Of course it had all been couched in terms a kid couldn’t grasp, but when he’d gotten older, and read the account himself…

_ But what am I supposed to do? I can’t run away and leave my robe behind. For one thing, I don’t have a robe. And…Starsky. I can’t abandon Starsky. _

He made an effort to still the trembling that had started along his mouth and jaw. “All right. I’m coming.” It was an effort to drag himself to his feet—and brought a stabbing pain to his head. He clutched it, grimaced in silence, and followed her.

He’d never felt less like having sex in his life.

He managed to get one sip of water—and thereby avoid her stare and attentions for several more moments—when the door burst open. They both jumped, and whirled to face the door. Ms. Flaubert clutched for her missing robe. Hutch grabbed for a pillow.

And then he jumped up. “Starsky!!!”

There stood his friend, breathing hard, a furious look on his face, his hair all disarrayed, wearing his jeans but no shirt, and with his hands tied together in front of him. “Came—to get you. C’mon.” He jerked his head towards the door, his eyes spitting fire.

“Are—are you okay?” Finally, Hutch noticed the throw on the back of the couch. He ripped it off—Ms. Flaubert shrieked a little as it yanked out from under her. He wrapped it clumsily around his waist and started towards Starsky. “D-d-d-did—h-h-he…”

Starsky cast him a scornful look. “It takes more than a little drugged cider to take me down. And that old goat isn’t gonna be molestin’ anybody for a long time, I can tell ya that. I kicked him where it HURTS,” said Starsky with a kind of evil satisfaction.

“Ah—Starsk—I’m so glad.” Hutch felt the tears trying to pool again.

“An’ what about you?” said Starsky, his gaze still angry. “You’re gonna sleep with her—just over some dumb photos? Go to the cops first!”

“I—I would’ve, Starsk. She told me—you—that he’d—if I didn’t—”

Stammering. How the hell had he ever thought he could make it in show business, if he still couldn’t get over his stuttering?

“All right, Blondie—relax, before you pull something. I’m fine.” He held his wrists out. “Now would you untie me? Please?”

#

Her most effective threat gone, Ms. Flaubert could only hiss a few dire warnings, which they ignored.

Hutch still couldn’t find his clothing; and when he tried asking her she simply looked smug as a bad cat.

“They got my shirt, too,” complained Starsky. “An’ my bowtie! That was a gift!”

“Let it go, Curly.” He grabbed Starsky by the shoulder and pulled him over to the clothing rack. It was still halfway full, despite the Christmas rush. “Just get something off here and let’s  _ go _ .”

“Right. You said it, brother.” Starsky joined him.

Hutch ended up dressed in designer slacks, boots that pinched, a loud orange shirt, and a jacket with no buttons. Starsky looked much the same on top, but with his blue jeans and sneakers below—and a furious expression to tie it all together.

“I’ll take that.” Hutch snapped up the last three pictures from a small side table. “And we ARE going to the cops.” He looked at Starsky. “Right, Starsk?”

The curly head nodded.  “Abso-lutely! Getting to be some kinda tradition if you ask me. Time somebody put a stop to it.”

They made it outside, Hutch walking carefully in the painful boots. Starsky nudged him in the ribs, and pointed to the sky. “Look, Hutch! Snow!”

“That’s…unlikely,” said Hutch, thinking of the usual weather out here. He looked up—to see a light flurry of flakes coming down.

Starsky laughed, and reached up to catch one. “Happy Christmas, Hutch! Snow!” He turned a delighted grin on Hutch.

“Um…yeah. Happy Christmas. Hey, Starsk.”

“Yeah?” Starsky looked at him.

He scratched at his chin. “Um, you get the feeling we’re going to be the laughingstock of the police station?” He gestured to their unconventional outfits.

Starsky waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I know a cop down there—Blaine. He’s a great guy. He’ll see us right.” They trudged down the steps to the street, where both their cars were parked. The rest of the street looked bare and clean, under the light dusting of snow. “We’ll need to find new jobs, though,” he added.

Hutch laughed. “Yeah, buddy. You and me. New jobs.” He headed to his car, his footprint covering one of Starsky’s in the new snow.

<<<>>>

  


  



End file.
